


We Can Chase the Dark Together

by K_R_Closson



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Cannibalism, M/M, Men who are hopelessly in love with each other, Murder, Will is a man with a plan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 00:24:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12569540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_R_Closson/pseuds/K_R_Closson
Summary: Will tips him and Hannibal off the cliff.Instead of hitting the water, he wakes up in his bed, several years in the past. His first, and only, priority is to find Hannibal again.





	We Can Chase the Dark Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Propriety_is_not_a_priority](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Propriety_is_not_a_priority/gifts).



> First off, thank you to the mods at Fandom Loves Puerto Rico and Propriety_is_not_a_priority for making this happen. This was exactly the push I needed to write in this fandom again. 
> 
> Second, it was a tough call whether to title this after Anthem of the Angels or Finding You by Ke$ha, but since Breaking Benjamin appears to be my soundtrack for writing Hannibal, this is what we ended up with.
> 
> Actual plot notes - there is reference to murder of both humans and animals in this story. Nothing graphic but it's there.

Will wraps his arms around Hannibal, leans into him, and lets gravity do the rest. It’s not so much a conscious choice to jump off the cliff as it is to set something in motion and see what will happen.

It’s very Hannibal of him.

Hannibal holds him tighter as they fall. Will closes his eyes.

He’s finally at peace.

Hitting the water doesn’t hurt as much as he expected. 

He opens his eyes and isn’t sure what he thinks he’ll see. Hannibal, standing over him, triumphant? Chiyoh with her rifle pointed at him?

The ceiling of his bedroom in Wolf Trap is not what he expects.

He closes his eyes. Opens them again. His ceiling is still there. His dogs whine at him from the floor, wanting attention. Cicero puts his paws on the bed as if he’s threatening to break the rules and jump into bed with Will if he doesn’t show signs of acting normal.

Will drags a hand down his face.

His scruff is...scruffy.

He stands up so he can look at his reflection in his mirror. His dogs trail him into the bathroom. 

He looks like shit.

Surprisingly, not like he went toe-to-toe with Francis Dolarhyde then plummeted off an oceanside cliff. No, he looks like Will-of-old with bags under his eyes and too pale skin. He stinks of sweat and fear. 

_ What the fuck? _

Cicero noses at the backs of his knees. 

“You want to go outside?” he guesses.

All his dogs rush downstairs to the porch door. He follows at a more sedate pace, picking up clothes as he goes. Pants off the floor, the jacket off the back of his living room chair, the sandals near the door. The edges are gnawed, but they protect his feet from the ground as he releases the dogs into the yard.

He sits on the steps as the dogs chase each other, happy to be awake and playing.

Either he had the most vivid and long lasting nightmare of his life, he is in a dream right now, or he traveled back in time. The sad thing is, all three of those things seem plausible. Is this the moment before death, where time stretches and thins? Is he reliving his whole life before he snaps into nothingness?

Why is this a memory his subconscious would latch onto?

Not dying then.

Already dead?

He looks out at his dogs. There’s no Winston in the pack yet. He’s gone far back.

_ Before Hannibal _ .

He said once that he thinks of his life as two phases, before Hannibal and after. He looks at his hands, untouched by the violence the psychiatrist brought out in him. He curls them into fists. The potential is still there. And, now that it’s been awakened it won’t easily slumber again. 

_ He’s changed me. But, if I truly am back in time then I haven’t changed him _ .

Is the world a better place for the two of them being strangers? Even if the entire life he thinks he lived was a dream, he’s seen the potential destruction two of them can bring about. 

_ I’m happier with him _ .

_ Am I that selfish? _

_ Yes. _

Well, fuck. 

He needs to find himself a cannibal.

~*~*~

Stepping back into his life is difficult. He has a closet full of shabby clothes, a freezer full of microwave meals, and subpar kitchen appliances. He’s been changed by Hannibal in more ways than he realized. Each time a new one pops up, he feels a stab of longing then resolution. 

He’ll find Hannibal again.

But this time it will be on his terms.

He’ll have to be careful, though. This Hannibal doesn’t know him. He doesn’t long for him. He isn’t fascinated by him. If Will is too obvious then he’ll end up dead. 

He smiles.

Time to fish again.

~*~*~

Teaching his classes is easy. His students are certainly confused the first time time he steps into the classroom in black slacks and a button up shirt that isn’t made out of flannel or lined with fleece. His curls are still out of control, but he doesn’t want to change too drastically.

He wants people to notice but not worry.

He lectures on familiar topics and even meets a few of his braver students’ eyes. They quickly look down at their notes as if they’re afraid he’ll take eye contact as a reason to cold call them. He’s not that kind of teacher.

Of course, they don’t know what to expect from him anymore.

He teaches then retreats to his office for lunch. He eats peanut butter and jelly on wheat bread. He longs for something better. Maybe he should learn to cook. It will be a long wait before he’s invited into Hannibal’s kitchen. 

He takes another bite of his sandwich.

He’s tossing his trash away when Alana knocks on his open door.

She looks beautiful in her blue dress, her smile genuine and  _ gentle _ as he waves her in. This is Alana before Hannibal hardened her. This is Alana when she was a woman he could’ve loved instead of one he feared. But, just as there’s potential in him, there’s potential in her. She could become that woman again. She could become an even more terrifying one. Or she could stay gentle, soft Alana who pities him too much to love him.

“Sorry,” he says when he realizes he’s been staring. “Uh, hi.”

“Hi.” She smiles at him, not mocking but inviting him to join in the joke even if it’s at his expense. “I heard a rumor you’d dressed up today. I had to see it with my own eyes.”

He stands up and brushes crumbs off his shirt. He holds his arms out, inviting her to look. His younger self-- _ this _ self--should be self-conscious. He isn’t, though, and he can see the moment she registers that he isn’t just different but  _ different _ .

“Are you meeting someone tonight?” she asks.

It’s Will’s turn to smile. “I put on a pair of pants that need to be ironed and you assume I have a date? Maybe I dressed this way for myself.”

“Going against years of precedent?” Alana, always kinder than Will deserves, doesn’t press on a topic he clearly wants to avoid. “It’s a good change.”

“Thanks.” He rubs the back of his neck, a habit he’s never been able to break. “I guess--You know when you sit for your first psych class you start self-diagnosing?”

She nods, her expression open and curious. 

“There’s only so many times I can lecture about serial killers before I start to notice all the boxes I tick.”

Alana shakes her head. “You have a thriving pack of happy, spoiled dogs. If they start ending up mutilated then I’d worry. Liking your solitude doesn’t make you a killer.”

Killing people does. 

He shrugs. “I’m not saying I’m abandoning my plans to live a quiet life with a yard full of dogs. But it can’t hurt to see more of the world than I’ve been seeing.”

Alana playfully holds a hand up to his forehead. Her hand is cool, and he leans into the touch without thinking. Her eyes widen in a moment of surprise before she quickly schools her face. Will takes a hurried step back.

“Anyway.” He rubs his neck again. “Maybe the next time the teachers go out for drinks I’ll tag along.”

“Maybe you’ll even willingly come to the Holiday Party this year.”

“Woah now.” Will holds his hands up. “Little steps.”

“There’s a lot of time between now and December. But, if we’re talking baby steps then me and Dr. Kohler take our lunch outside. Do you want to join us tomorrow?”

“Thank you.”

Alana beams at him, a little like Will does when his dogs successfully pick up a new command. He’s not sure whether to be insulted or not.

~*~*~

The problem with meeting Hannibal is that they can’t accidentally run into each other. They don’t occupy the same spaces. And Will refuses to go back into therapy with him. It limits his options.

He tosses a stick for his dogs as he thinks them over.

One, he kills someone and leaves a message with the body. It has a certain poetry to it and, after all the bodies Hannibal has left Will, it’s definitely deserved. But murder poses a risk to him in terms of being caught and, also, in terms of Hannibal. What if he sees the murder as a challenge? What if he doesn’t want another killer in his territory? 

Two, he works with Jack until there’s a case so high profile that it catches Hannibal’s attention and Hannibal approaches him.

Three, he forces their spaces to overlap.

He wrestles the stick free from Cicero and tosses it again.

~*~*~

“What do you think about profiling?” Will asks at lunch.

It’s now his second week eating outside. On most days it’s him, Alana, Dr. Kohler, Spencer, and Laura. Today, it’s the original group, Alana and Dr. Kohler. Amy Kohler is a woman with gray hair and steel in her spine. She’s another part-time professor who has a psychiatry practice that she dedicates most of her time to.

“Do I think it’s useful?” Dr. Kohler asks. “It’s not the magic wand certain people in this building want it to be, but if the profiler is good enough then it can be useful.”

“Thinking of a career change?” Alana asks, perceptive as ever.

“I do a lot of thinking after the fact. I wonder if I could do some good by applying my skills to current cases.”

“Jack Crawford would shit his pants if he heard you were thinking about profiling something besides closed cases,” Dr. Kohler says.

Alana frowns. “He also has a very forceful personality and a poor track record in terms of managing his assets.”

“He got a trainee kidnapped and most likely killed by the Chesapeake Ripper,” Dr. Kohler loudly whispers.

Alana’s frown deepens. 

Will tries not to smile too obviously at the mention of Hannibal.

“I’m not fragile,” Will says.

Both women give him matching looks.

“Not  _ that  _ fragile,” he amends.  _ I’ve broken and come back together, stronger than I was before.  _ “I’m not saying I have some kind of hero complex or anything. But if I could help then I feel like I should. Maybe I’m just missing being on the force. I could see results there. It’s harder as a teacher. Maybe some of my students are successful, but is there any way to know how much of that was my influence?”

“I can put in a word for you if that’s what you want,” Alana says. “But you have to be prepared to set, and defend, your boundaries. Jack will take everything you offer him then push for more.”

“Would it be weird? I know he sometimes asks you to look at cases. I don’t want to step on your toes.”

Alana laughs, amused that this is what he’s hung up on. “You think it’ll hurt my feelings when you show me up?” She shakes her head. “I want to see bad people in jail. If you can help with that then I can handle the ego hit.”

Will doesn’t pretend he won’t be good at profiling. It would be unfair to both of them. 

“How come  _ you _ get to put in the good word?” Dr. Kohler asks. “Maybe I want the referral bonus.”

“There’s no bonus,” Alana tells Will.

“If she doesn’t take you out for steak then she’s cheating you,” Dr. Kohler says.

Will laughs and politely ignores Alana’s blush. 

~*~*~

Jack Crawford is remarkably unchanged. He barrels into the conversation and never stops rolling, talking over Will at every opportunity, and somehow turning this into a favor for  _ Will  _ instead of Will doing a favor for Jack.

Will successfully argues to be paid a consulting fee. 

He’ll take the win.

~*~*~

“So.” Beverly leans against the autopsy table with her arms crossed over her chest. “You’re Will Graham.”

He tucks his hands into his pockets so he doesn’t give in to the urge to hug her, because she’s here and  _ alive _ . “I am. You might know me as the guy who writes about bugs. Or the guy who thinks about killing a lot.”

Price and Zeller stare.

Beverly bursts into laughter. “Oh, I like you. You’ll be a good fit here.”

“I hope so.” 

_ I won’t let you die this time. _

~*~*~

Jack starts him off with a softball of a case. It’s almost insulting, but Will can admit that the real reason he’s annoyed is because this isn’t a case that will make its way to Hannibal’s ears. Not even Freddie Lounds cares enough to poke her nose where it doesn’t belong.

It’s a test, one that Will passes, and he’s paid enough to take the first step towards his plan to meet Hannibal on his own terms if not on his own ground.

He buys a suit.

A tuxedo is too much, but the navy suit, so dark it’s almost black, is sleek and formal and perfect for where Will will wear it. It’s expensive, but he reminds himself that he has the money to spend. 

Besides, a fisherman needs the right lure. He hangs the suit in his closet along with the dress shirt he bought for the occasional. The fabric is high quality, the clothes well-made without being flashy. He won’t necessarily draw Hannibal’s attention but once he’s noticed, Hannibal won’t easily look away. 

He closes his closet door to keep the worst of the dog hair off the clothes then goes downstairs. 

He’s trying a new recipe tonight.

~*~*~

He clicks through his slides on the Marlow break in. “Everyone has thought about killing someone one way or another.”

_ Tell me. How would you do it? _

_ With my hands. _

He shakes himself from the memory. “Think about killing Mrs. Marlow. Tell me your design.”

_ Could you have killed her? When you imagine the murder are you terrified? Intrigued? Do you wonder if you could truly do it? _

His gaze sweeps through the room. How many of these trainees are capable of killing? At this stage in their FBI careers, he would bet most of them. But how many would  _ enjoy _ it? There’s one young man in third to last row who is leaning forward a touch too eagerly.

_ I see you. But what am I going to do with you? _

“Class dismissed,” Jack announces, striding into the room. 

Even a handful of weeks ago, his students would rush out. Today, though, they all look to Will for permission. The vein in Jack’s forehead throbs.

“I suppose it would be in poor form for me to tell you to ignore the head of the Behavioral Science Unit since many of you are no doubt hoping to work for him one day,” Will says. He tucks his irritation away for later. “Your assignment for tonight is to reflect on this murder. Try to step into the killer’s shoes. Who are they? What do they think they’ll get out of these murders? You may go.”

They linger as they pack up, everyone clearly interested in why Jack is here for Will. Jack and Will both outwait them, Jack far more patience than Will.

Once the room is empty, Will turns to Jack, the first to leap on the offensive. “Don’t do that again.”

“Pardon?” Jack’s surprised but he recovers well, puffing up like a fish that’s been threatened. 

“I’ve agreed to consult for you, but in my free time. This is my classroom. You don’t get to end my class, because you think your work is more important than mine.”

“My work will save lives.”

“You can respect my job or you can do without my services.”

Issuing an ultimatum is dangerous, but it would be even worse to set the precedent that it’s okay for Jack to walk all over him. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

It’s not the definitive victory Will hoped for, but he knows better than to push for more. Jack does need him, but Will also needs Jack. He can’t alienate him too much. 

“You have a new case, then?”

Back on familiar ground, Jack nods and leads Will to the parking lot. “This one’s weird.”

_ Aren’t they all? _

~*~*~

The rest of the team is already at the crime scene, yellow tape set up around a rundown house. The windows are boarded up, the roof is missing a few chunks. The door, hanging crooked on its hinges, is held open. 

The officer at the door hands them each a pair of gloves and booties to cover their shoes with. 

“Basement door is evidence,” he explains. “Don’t know what else might be.”

Will covers his shoes then snaps his gloves on. He heads straight for the basement door. The upstairs-facing side is unremarkable. The other side has scratches clawed into it. There are specks that are probably blood.

He goes downstairs, intrigued at what he’ll find. 

The basement is stripped almost entirely bare. There’s a single, boarded-up window. There’s evidence of blood on there too as if someone tried to rip it off and didn’t succeed. There are blankets on the floor that smell like musk and stale urine. 

In the corner is a cage. There’s a decaying body inside it. There’s a collar around what was once a human neck. There’s a leash attached to the collar. 

“Sex game gone wrong?” Jack asks.

“Very wrong,” Zeller says.

“There’s nothing here that implies sex,” Will answers. 

Zeller points to the cage.

“I know when I have sex my partner doesn’t end up dead,” Will says. “Is it different for you?”

“You have sex?” Beverly asks. 

“Focus,” Jack snaps. “Will, do you need us to clear the room?”

He closes his eyes and allows the pendulum to swing. 

_ I’m nervous. And excited. I hope she likes me. I buy her only the nicest things. When I open the door, the basement is silent. Is she okay? I rush down the stairs. She’s curled up in her cage. I can see her chest rise and fall. She’s breathing. Why isn’t she saying hello? Good puppies are always happy to see their owners.  _

_ She must not be good, then.  _

_ Bad puppies are punished. _

“Definitely not a sex thing,” Will says. He wrinkles his nose as he looks around the room again. Their killer fancies himself an owner, but he’s a shitty one. First of all, the girl he kidnapped is dead. Second of all, there’s nothing in here. No toys, no thick blankets for when it’s cold.

“Definitely? You sound certain.”

“He wanted to take care of her. He just sucked at it.”

“Did the dead body give it away?” Price asks.

Will huffs a quiet laugh. “We’re looking at someone with stunted emotional growth. Someone who wanted a pet as a kid and was told they weren’t responsible enough to be trusted with one.”

“So they grew up and decided to what--” Jack looks around in disgust, “Try keeping a human?”

“Humans are pretty self-sufficient,” Will says. “Which leads me to my original conclusion--our killer is a terrible owner. I’d say we’re looking at death by abandonment.”

“What are the chances our killer learned a lesson from this?” Jack asks.

“It’s not him that’s the problem. She wasn’t a good girl. If he had a better pet then he’d be a better owner. She’s been dead long enough that there’s certainly another victim.”

Jack drags a hand down his face. “Let’s have forensics sweep the room. We need a hint of who this killer is and how to find him.”

~*~*~

“I hear you’re working on a tough case,” Alana says at lunch. “I know you can’t tell me anything. I’m not fishing for information. I just--”

“Worry about me?” Will smiles.  _ It’s far too late for that, Alana _ . “I knew Jack wouldn’t ask me to look at good things. It’s not easy, but I won’t let it overwhelm me.”

“You should have balance in your life.”

This sounds like the lead-up to some kind of invitation. Will tips his head back so the sun shines on his face. “What do you know that’s beautiful enough to cancel out crime scenes?”

Alana flounders for a moment, caught off guard and embarrassed. “Am I that obvious?”

“You care about your friends, and you’re generous enough with your friendship that you consider me one.” Will stops basking in the late summer sunlight to look over at Alana. “I’m sorry. That was--I’ve spent too much time profiling recently.”

“It’s okay. You’re perceptive. You can’t turn it off.”

“Perceptive is a nice way of saying it. My teachers used to say that I have an overactive imagination.” 

“You were right, though.” Alana tucks her hair behind her ears. “I was going to make an offer. The Baltimore Opera has quite the reputation.”

Will’s surprised enough that he stares, no words popping into his head. He’s been meticulously planning how to arrange going to the opera in hopes of meeting Hannibal and Alana’s offering to bring him?

Alana misinterprets his shock. “I know it’s probably not your thing, but I have a friend who’s been after me to go for ages. He says there’s nothing more soul cleansing than human voices as they reach for perfection.”

Sounds like Hannibal. “Is your friend a poet?”

“Hardly. But I’m sure he’d be flattered if he heard you say that.”

Will takes a sip of his water. “I could give it a try. What are they performing?”

“Uh, I actually don’t know. I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

“This case will get worse before it gets better,” Will says. “I could use something beautiful in my life.”

~*~*~

Will swings down to the labs after class. Price and Zeller are huddled by the autopsy table. 

“She died of dehydration,” Price says, spotting Will. 

“Tick in the favor of death by abandonment,” Zeller says. 

“Our killer wanted to play protector and provider,” Will says approaching the body. It barely resembles a human anymore. “He wasn’t very good at it.”

“You really think he kidnapped more girls?”

“Not just girls. This isn’t sexual for him. It’s a deeper need. There might be more girls because they’re easier to subdue. But there might be more boys because they’re easier to get alone. Our killer is...odd. Noticeably so. It would take a lot of effort to convince a girl to go anywhere alone with him.”

“We’re looking for a social outcast whose mom didn’t let him have a puppy. Because  _ that  _ narrows down our suspect pool.”

Will shrugs. “I profile. You do evidence stuff.”

“Evidence stuff?” Zeller squawks. He turns to Price. “Did you hear what he just said?”

Price shrugs. “I heard you’re going to the opera with Alana Bloom.”

“Not like that,” Will says to head off any rumors before they can gain too much traction. “She thought I might want a distraction from the case.”

Zeller waggles his eyebrows.

Prince whacks his shoulder. “Razz Will all you want, but have some respect for Alana. She’s a nice woman.”

“Maybe  _ you _ should go to the opera with her,” Zeller grumbles.

Beverly brandishes her phone as she enters the room. “The leash she was wearing was crap, but the collar was nice. Like  _ really  _ nice.”

“How nice?” Price asks.

Beverly grins. “Custom-made nice.”

Price nods towards Will. “Evidence stuff.”

~*~*~

Will meets Alana at the opera house. She had dinner with friends beforehand, and she invited him, but that would stretch his desire to socialize for the night. Besides, if he meets her at the opera house then it’s less like a date. 

He tugs at his suit jacket before braving the crowd. Fortunately, Alana is easy to find. She stands amongst a group of well-dressed men and women, but he’s never had trouble finding her. She’s the north his compass points to. In another time, she might’ve kept him from becoming who he is.

It’s too late for him now.

It isn’t too late for her.

He weaves his way through the throng of people until he reaches Alana’s circle. Here, he pauses, unsure how to make his presence known. When his plan was to slip into the opera and find Hannibal, he was much more confident. On the outskirts of these successful, wealthy patrons, he feels years of childhood insecurity creep back.

Always the new kid at school, the one with the funny accent and the scuffed shoes and dirty shirts. He was the one who was sent to the nurse at least once a week, because he didn’t have a lunch. 

“Will!” Alana’s voice breaks through his panicked thoughts. “You made it.”

She pulls him in for a hug which he tolerates the best he can. She smells like a different perfume than usual. A going-out perfume rather than one she’d wear to work. Her eyes sparkle with the wine she had at dinner. She prefers beer, but he bets the crowd she dined with ordered a bottle or two of wine and she was too polite to ask for something for herself.

“I’m here,” Will agrees.

Alana releases him which is one comfort but it’s immediately countered by the discomfort of being left alone to fend himself against her friends. 

He recognizes one of them immediately. Dr. Donald Sutcliffe.

_ In the future, Hannibal killed you _ , he thinks.  _ I wonder if this time I could help him. _

“This is Will Graham,” Alana introduces when it’s clear Will isn’t introducing himself. “We work together at Quantico.”

“Ah, another teacher,” Dr. Sutcliffe says. “Are you like Alana, teaching in your spare time?”

“When I’m not teaching I study serial killers.”

Alana sighs.

Will tucks his hands into his pockets and grimaces. It’s as close to a smile as he’ll get. 

~*~*~

The opera is nice enough. Will can appreciate the talent required to perform it, but without Hannibal next to him to feed off of, Will doesn’t fully grasp the wonder of the performance. 

Alana seems bored. She fakes interest well, but her hands fidget in her lap. At intermission, Dr. Sutcliffe drones on about the “aesthetics” and how it takes a truly cultured man to connect with the emotions in an opera.

Will scans the crowd for a familiar figure.

He’s disappointed when he doesn’t see him.

“Well,” Alana says once the lights have come on and everyone has clapped for the performers. “That was...something.”

“It definitely was. Thank you for inviting me.”

“You hated it.”

“You’re projecting.”

Alana laughs a little and reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ears like she’s forgotten it’s pulled back. “Drink before we call it a night? I took a cab here.”

“Then more than one for you,” Will says.

There’s a long line, but they each secure a drink and, to his relief, she doesn’t force him to talk to her friends again. 

“You seem more in your element than I thought you’d be,” she admits.

“Humans pushing themselves to their extremes,” Will says. “Some might say that’s exactly my element.”

“You’re comparing the opera to murder?” Alana asks, incredulous.

“An intriguing comparison.”

Will turns towards the sound of Hannibal’s voice, a smile stretching his lips before he catches himself. Because Hannibal is  _ here _ . He’s regal in his tuxedo, his bowtie secured just-so. He’s younger than Will remembers, but there’s the same knowledge in his eyes, the same darkness lurking just beneath his exterior.

_ Hello, Dr. Lecter. I’ve missed you. _

“I hope you’re not offended,” Will says. “I sometimes speak without thinking.”

“On the contrary. I believe you think a great deal. Perhaps not in the way others do.”

“What gave it away? The murder comparison?”

Will smiles, daring,  _ flirting _ , and he knows he should rein himself in but it’s difficult. Hannibal always brings out the best in him.

Alana coughs politely. “Will, this is my mentor and friend, Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Hannibal, this is my coworker and friend, Will Graham.”

Hannibal holds a hand out to Will. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Graham.”

“Please,” Will says as he shakes Hannibal’s hand. “Call me Will.”

“And you shall call me Hannibal.”

_ Shall I? _

“A doctor who prefers to be called by his name? You must not be in the medical profession, then.”

Hannibal’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. “I was formerly a physician. Currently, I practice psychiatry.”

“Perhaps I should censor myself then.”

“Not on my account, I hope. I must admit, I’m intrigued to hear your thoughts on the opera.”

“I should warn you, my thoughts are not always tasty.”

“Do you have trouble with taste?”

Will takes a sip of his scotch. It does little to hide his smile. “Are you psychoanalyzing me, Dr. Lecter? Isn’t it after hours?”

“I thought I asked you to called me Hannibal.”

_ I believe you ordered me to, and you haven’t earned that right yet. Not that I was ever good at obeying your orders. You like that I flaunt your control. It’s part of what makes me interesting. _

Will eyes Hannibal which means he notices the way Hannibal looks at him, taking in Will’s appearance and enjoying what he sees. It would be easy to continue the flirtation until Hannibal offered him a ride home. But Will wants more than a tryst. He wants more than an affair. 

He wants  _ everything _ . Which means he needs to hold out until Hannibal’s completely hooked.

Alana’s subtly trying to back away which provides Will the perfect opportunity.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Alana. “That was terribly rude. Thank you for introducing me to your mentor.”

Alana glances at Hannibal then laughs. “He doesn’t like it when I introduce him that way. I think it makes him feel old.”

“I am hardly ashamed of my age,” Hannibal says. “Progression of time is a natural process which affects us all. I believe I’m the one who should apologize for intruding on your evening. It’s just such a rare sight to see Alana at the opera that I had to meet the man who persuaded her to attend.”

“That’s not how it went at all,” Will says. “She invited me. She told me it would be beautiful and it was. I’m glad I came tonight.”

He allows his gaze to linger on Hannibal’s fingers, curled around his glass. 

Hannibal smiles, slow, a predator who realizes his prey is in his sights. “Should I extrapolate, then, that you also find murder beautiful?”

“Depends on the murder.”

Hannibal’s eyes glitter in the light of the reception hall.

_ There you are, my monster.  _

“I’m afraid I have obligations that demand my attention, but I would like to hear more of your thoughts,” Hannibal says.

_ Whetting my interest then leaving so I’ll think of you until I see you again? I used that move first. Does that frustrate you or only excite you more? Have you realized yet that you’ve found an equal to play your games with? _

“Is this where you hand me a business card?” Will asks.

Hannibal answers only with a smile. 

~*~*~

It takes five days of investigating addresses that have had custom made collars delivered to them before they find another rundown house with no neighbors nearby.

“Ding-ding-ding,” Beverly says as they survey the paint peeling off the shutters. “How much do you want to bet that this is a winner?”

“You go first,” Price tells her. When everyone looks at him, he shrugs. “She has a gun. That means, she goes first.”

Beverly draws her gun.

Will snaps on a pair of gloves. 

Like the previous house, the top floor is undisturbed. The counters have collected dust, the water in the sink is turned off, and when Will opens the fridge, there’s no power to it. They make sure there’s nothing to be used on this level before Beverly opens the cellar door.

They can smell the decay from up here this time.

“We have a winner,” Beverly mutters before she begins her descent.

“I think in this case, we’re all losers,” Zeller says.

Even Will is disappointed even though the collar purchase was made long enough ago that it was unlikely the victim was still alive.

“Wait,” he says. “Look at this.”

He points to the basement door.

Zeller shines his flashlight on it. “There’s nothing there.”

“Exactly. The last victim clawed off her fingernails trying to escape. This one didn’t.”

“This one took a more proactive approach,” Beverly says from the bottom of the stairs. They follow her down. 

This basement has sturdy pipes running through the ceiling. And, hanging from one of those pipes, is a body. 

“Male this time, I think,” Price says, stepping closer to the corpse, its flesh mostly gone at this point in time. “And an earlier victim than the first.”

“That would make sense,” Will says. “There was nothing in the other basement to be used for this. Our killer didn’t want a repeat.”

“Only he’s allowed to kill them?” Zeller shakes his head.

“He’s not purposefully killing them,” Will says. “He makes them completely dependent on himself so he can show that he’s a caretaker. Then he gets busy or forgets and by the time he remembers, it’s too late.”

“Why can’t he collect goldfish or cacti like everyone else who sucks at responsibility?” Beverly asks. 

“He’s not that self-aware.”

~*~*~

Will doesn’t have the money to spend going to every opera or art show in town. It would be easier to bump into Hannibal if he did, but he has to plan this from a budgeting perspective and also a fishing perspective.

He doesn’t want to appear  _ too  _ eager.

The last thing he wants is to be slotted into the Franklyn category of Hannibal’s acquaintances.

He passes on  _ The Marriage of Figaro  _ and also  _ The Barber of Seville _ . When  _ La Damnation de Faust  _ is announced, he takes a lint roller to his suit and buys a new dress shirt. Man’s single-minded pursuit of what he wants despite how it damns him is exactly the kind of thing Hannibal would enjoy.

Going to the opera on his own is more of a struggle than he’d like to admit. He can’t invite Alana without threatening to spoil their friendship with something more, and the truth is, he has very few friends let alone people who would accompany him to the opera.

Beverly would go to a bar with him for a few beers and rounds of pool, but the opera isn’t her scene. It certainly isn’t Jack’s, who is too blunt to appreciate the nuances of the performance. Hannibal is the only person Will can share this with and they aren’t friends yet.

He armors himself in clothes he knows he’ll be scorned for and tries to find the right personality to equip himself with. His younger self threatens to push forward, uncomfortably aware of his own shortcomings, but all of the killers in his head are too much for tonight. He doesn’t want to make eye contact with high society and have The Minnesota Shrike shine from his gaze.

He gels his hair then washes the gel out then towel dries his hair until it floofs. It’s ridiculous but he doesn’t know what else to do and he’s running out of time.

He misses Hannibal with a sharp ache. Will knows himself better than he has before in his life, but what is knowing himself worth if there’s no one to share it with. 

_ Patience. I’ll have him again, side-by-side and equal. _

He goes straight to his seat. He stays there throughout the performance, even through intermission. He stays in his seat, eyes closed and imagines Hannibal’s reaction to the evening. 

_ It is a divine performance. _

_ Divine, Hannibal? Really? It’s a play about Hell. This is almost as bad as the cannibal jokes. _

_ You enjoy them. _

_ Almost as much as you do. _

He continues to drift through the second half of the opera. When it’s over, he stands and claps along with the people around him. Finally, he slips away from the tight pack of people and drifts into the reception hall. 

He secures a glass of scotch for himself and steers clear of Dr. Sutcliffe and his friends. If he has to approach them to see Hannibal again then he will, but he’d prefer not to. If he spends too much time with Dr. Sutcliffe then he’ll sneak into his office and kill him and get himself caught.

He leans against a pillar and watches the crowd as he sips his drink. 

He wonders if this is how Hannibal feels, removed from everyone and their existence. Only, Hannibal doesn’t remove himself as literally as Will has. He stands amongst them, listening and a part of them yet at the same time above them. 

_ They’re all so dull. No wonder you’ve turned to murder to keep yourself entertained. _

“You returned.”

Will turns to Hannibal, surprised he was able to sneak up on him. “I did.”

Hannibal takes in Will’s outfit, his gaze lingering on the pants, clean of dog hair but not wrinkles. He notes the jacket, same as last time and the shirt, different. Will’s cheeks heat up even though he purposefully wore the same outfit in hopes of provoking a response. 

He’s aware that he looks poor and uncultured, and there’s enough lingering shame from his childhood that his shoulders draw up as if that will protect him from Hannibal Lecter. 

“You are expanding your palate but not your wardrobe?”

_ I look uncomfortable, and you can’t resist poking to see what reaction you’ll get. If I hadn’t planned for this, I’d be pissed with you.  _

Will ducks his head, no need to fake his embarrassment. “I’m afraid my occupation only allows me to expand one. I thought changing my shirt would be enough.”

“Perhaps I can offer a solution.”

_ Oh, I bet you can. It’s too soon for you to offer to personally dress me, you know it would scare me off. But there are other things you can offer, and you enjoy your friends being in your debt. You enjoy being  _ needed.  _ Manipulating you like this is almost too easy. _

“I have a box here. I would not mind inviting a friend to help fill the empty seats.”

“And are we friends, Dr. Lecter?”

“Hannibal,” he corrects. “I suppose we aren’t yet, but we could be. What are your requirements for friendship? Do we need to have several conversations to see if we have shared interests? Do we need to share a meal together?”

_ Now, you sound like you’re hoping for more than friendship. _

Will tucks his free hand into his pocket. “I would be willing to have a trial run. Should we talk about tonight’s performance? We both attended so it’s an interest we share.”

Hannibal raises his glass of wine in a toast. “Do you interpret the work as a tragedy?”

“A tragedy of short-sightedness. And poor bargaining.”

Hannibal is startled into a laugh, the first of many victories Will hopes to claim. “You do not hold Méphistophélès at fault?”

“Why blame someone for their nature? We are who we are. Faust, if he were a true scholar, would know with whom he dealt and to be careful. He allowed himself to be blinded by a woman he didn’t even know to desire until Méphistophélès introduced them.”

“You see the opera a triumph, then.”

“It’s all a matter of perspective. Méphistophélès certainly achieved his aim.”

Will realizes he’s drawn closer to Hannibal as they’ve spoken, pulled into his orbit without conscious thought. He takes a step back and ducks his head again, hiding his gaze from Hannibal’s. 

“I did warn you that my thoughts are not always the most socially acceptable,” Will says. 

“I don’t shy away from the truth. If you would be more comfortable, we can continue this conversation at my home. I don’t live far from here.”

“Fast track friendship?” Will asks. 

Hannibal leads him outside where the valet fetches the Bentley.

~*~*~

“Alana mentioned you were a coworker,” Hannibal says as he makes them each a cup of coffee. “You are a teacher?”

“I lecture at Quantico.” He takes the coffee Hannibal offers him. “Thank you. Recently, I’ve added criminal profiling to my duties.”

“A noble pursuit. What case are you working on now? Or are you not allowed to say?”

“I can’t talk specifics, but if you wouldn’t mind the subject matter or lending your assistance then I would enjoy theorizing with you.”

Coffee in hand, Hannibal leads Will into the sitting room. The theremin sits in its place, the seating is arranged the same as the last time Will was here. Part of him wants to return to the kitchen and relive Abigail’s last moments. Another part of him wants to lead Hannibal upstairs to the rooms he hasn’t been in before.

The house is familiar and new, and his longing returns. He doesn’t want to be patient. He doesn’t want to lure Hannibal in. He wants everything and he wants it  _ now _ .

_ Careful _ , he cautions himself.

He sits on the couch and grins when Hannibal sits regally in his armchair. 

_ Is this therapy, Dr. Lecter? _

“The killer is treating his victims like dogs. Like pets,” Will amends because that distinction is the important one. “He arranges an environment where they have to rely on him for everything then he forgets about them. One victim hung himself. Another died of neglect.”

“A poor imitation of a pet owner.”

“Very poor. But he is learning? As far as he’s able to learn.”

“Perhaps he didn’t begin with human victims, then.” Hannibal sets his coffee aside so he can give Will his full attention. “Just as fledging serial killers often begin with the mutilation of animals, perhaps your killer began with other pets.”

“We should look into the deaths of abandoned animals. It’ll be more difficult, fewer people report missing dogs than people. I originally hypothesized that he was denied a pet as a kid, but I think he did have one, something small, and he proved himself incapable of caring for it.”

“He was denied the chance to grow.”

“And now he’s taken it upon himself. But why now? This isn’t the work of a child or even a young adult. There’s a desperation to what he’s doing, but I don’t know why.”

“You need more pieces.”

“I suppose I do.” He’s disappointed that talking with Hannibal hasn’t shaken the picture clear. Still, he’ll tell Beverly about the dog angle and see if they turn anything up. “Would you like to talk about the opera again?”

“You were telling me of the triumph of Méphistophélès.”

“He’s far brighter than his victims. They don’t see the trap he’s laid for them until it’s too late.”

“You admire him.”

“I understand him.”

Hannibal leans back in his chair. “Fascinating.”

~*~*~

“We need to look into lost dogs,” Will says.

Beverly looks up from her microscope. “The first step is admitting you have a problem.”

“We’re not enabling you,” Price adds.

Will surprises himself by laughing. “I have enough dogs. I was talking to someone the other night and they reminded me that serial killers often practice on animals before upgrading to humans.”

“You think he played doggie daycare with actual dogs first?” Zeller asks.

“Do we have anymore human leads?”

Beverly shrugs. “There’s still evidence to process, but no, not really.”

“Then dogs. Ones that went missing before the time of death of our male victim. And who were from this general area.”

“This is such a longshot,” Zeller says but he boots up the computer. 

~*~*~

“I’m in trouble with Hannibal,” Alana says at lunch. The leaves are beginning to change color. They won’t be able to eat outside much longer. “He wants to know why I’ve been hiding you from him.”

“Have you?” Will asks.

“You don’t like people poking at you, and you’re understandably defensive about your empathy. Introducing you to psychiatrists didn’t seem like something a friend would do.”

“He’s not like most people,” Will says.

“That’s an understatement.” Alana dips her pita in hummus. “He said he ran into you at the opera last week.”

“Ah, so now you talk about me?” Will asks.

She shrugs, hair rippling down her back. She really is quite beautiful. Will wishes he was still the man who could love her. 

“I don’t believe it’s  _ professional  _ curiosity you’ve stirred in him.”

“There have been stirrings, then?” He laughs, bright and open as Alana blushes. Taking pity on her, he says, “I find him interesting. I don’t know where that will take us.”

“It’s mutual. He’s hosting a dinner party next week and if I didn’t know I was a standard invite for him then I’d suspect he was inviting me so I would bring you along.”

“Are you inviting me to dinner with your former mentor?”

“Hannibal’s dinner parties are more of a show than a meal, but the food is delicious. He’s a man who loves a good performance.”

“If you don’t mind then I would like to go. I haven’t seen him in his natural habitat yet.”

~*~*~

Will’s on the way home from a late night at Quantico when something on the side of the road catches his eye. He pulls to the side and sees a dead wolf, a trail of blood leading to her resting place, half on the road and half on the grass. Someone must have hit her and dragged her out of their way.

A quiet whuffling makes his turn. He turns his hazards on so anyone who happens to drive by doesn’t hit  _ him _ then crosses the road. He finds a small wolf cub, no doubt waiting for his mother to return. 

This must’ve been why she was crossing the road. 

The pup bares its teeth, too small to look threatening. 

“Bringing you home would be a bad idea,” Will says.

The pup shuffles closer. 

~*~*~

Will keeps the pup on his lap as his dogs crowd around, intrigued by the stranger in their home.

“Philly, this is your new family.”

Méphistophélès bares her teeth at her canine brethren. 

Cicero trots off and returns with his favorite toy to share. 

Will’s had worse ideas.

~*~*~

“Should I bring anything to this dinner party?” Will asks. They’re talking after classes for a change, Will stopping by Alana’s office. She’s in a sweater dress, leggings, and knee-high boots. She always looks so effortlessly put together. Will’s envious of her. 

“Yourself.”

“A bottle of wine?” Will asks.

“Hannibal’s very particular about his menu. I wouldn’t risk it.”

“Dress code?”

Alana stops gathering her papers and truly looks at him. He has to fight his urge to duck and hide. “You’re trying.”

“I’m coming as your plus-one. I want to reflect well on you.”

“Flattering but untrue.”

“Hannibal’s cultured and he puts a high premium on manners. I don’t want to offend him.”

“You like him.” Alana slings her back over her shoulder. “I don’t know what’s stranger, seeing him interested in another person or seeing you interested in someone.”

“I think he might be able to understand me.”

The look Alana gives him is part pity and part worry. “A lot of people could if you gave them the chance.”

“Most of them would run screaming.”

“You think Hannibal wouldn’t?”

“I’m willing to take the risk and find out.”

They walk out to the parking lot together. The wind picks up, blowing Alana’s hair this way then that. Will pulls his sweater sleeves over his hands.

“You’ve changed,” Alana says when they stop next to her car.

Will knew she was too perceptive not to notice. How much she’s noticed and what she suspects is the question now. Though, how could she suspect the truth? He’s not even certain what the truth is - time travel or a strange dream. Alana’s too practical to leap to either of those conclusions.

“A good change, I hope,” Will says.

“I hope so too.”

~*~*~

Despite her reservations, Alana helps him dress for the party. Well, she lets him change at her place. Will picks the clothes out himself. He buttons the cuffs of the gunmetal grey shirt, the sheen of the fabric making it look as if he glints when the light hits him properly.

Alana frowns and doesn’t bother to hide it.

“You regret bringing me?” he asks. He meets her gaze through the hall mirror. “Or does your regret extend further back? All the way to the opera?”

She looks uncomfortable with how easily he reads her, but she doesn’t back down or grow defensive. “Your empathy makes you reflect the people around you. When was the last time you wore flannel?”

“I’m not turning into Hannibal,” Will says.

_ He’s changed me. Just as I changed him. And will change him again. _

“You seem more comfortable,” she finally says.

“And you think it’s because I’ve found someone else’s skin to wear.”

“Yes.”

He stops fussing with his hair and turns so he’s meeting her gaze directly. “We haven’t talked about my empathy a lot. I know it’s because you want to see me as a friend rather than a subject of study, and I appreciate that. I do reflect the people around me, but I know what parts of me are them are what parts of me are me. I won’t lose myself.”

“You’re willingly going to the opera.” She laughs, a touch forced, trying too hard to lighten the mood.

He appreciates the attempt. It’s why he says, “I was changing before the opera. Maybe the change made me ready for the opera. I’m more stable than I’ve been before in my life. I know who I am. I never realized that kind of certainly would be something I could have.”

Alana touches her hand to his arm; an apology and acceptance in one small movement.

~*~*~

Hannibal is in his  _ element _ . His house is packed with an adoring crowd, and Hannibal gets to strut and peacock as much as he’d like. He makes little jokes and presents the courses with bits of history and culinary lessons. 

He presides at the head of the table so he can survey his victims. His gaze lingers on Will and Will rewards him by spearing a piece of meat which definitely isn’t what Hannibal claims it to be. He lifts his fork to his mouth and keeps eye contact as he wraps his lips around the utensil. 

One day, he’ll dine at Hannibal’s table when they both know what Will’s voluntarily,  _ eagerly,  _ consuming. For now, Will has to be satisfied with the innuendo and that Hannibal’s pleased at playing provider. 

_ I see you _ , he thinks once Hannibal’s attention has been drawn elsewhere.  _ Soon, I’ll allow you to see me too _ .

Is this how Hannibal felt playing their games? He knew everything, held all the power, and he made every move with a good idea of how Will would move in response. They’ve switched positions. Now Will’s the one who knows things. He knows enough to know that this is a dangerous game. 

If he winds Hannibal up the wrong way then when he lets him go Will will end up dead.

Of course, Will made more than one attempt on Hannibal’s life when they knew each other before.

Maybe it’s the same stakes, after all. 

~*~*~

After dinner, Will lingers in the sitting room with a glass of wine. He gaze strays to the theremin. The room is crowded with Hannibal’s admirers. It pisses him off. He wants to the be only one. Mrs. Komeda hangs onto Hannibal’s every word, and Dr. Sutcliffe puffs up his chest to take up more space, and Will wants to rip them away from Hannibal.

He imagines luring Dr. Sutcliffe to his office and cutting his head open. He’d remove the brain and dissect it, pinning it to the board and labeling each section. He’d stitch Sutcliffe’s head back together then pose him in one of his MRI machines. 

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” an all too familiar voice says, pulling Will from his fantasies. 

Dr. Frederick Chilton smiles at him, young and stupid and  _ grating _ . Here’s another person Will would gladly kill. 

“Will Graham.”

Chilton’s smile turns sharp. “Not  _ the  _ Will Graham? I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Given where you work, forgive me if I’m not flattered.”

Chilton laughs, too loud, and it draws even more unwanted attention towards them. “I hardly think you belong within my walls, but I’m always available if you want to talk.”

Will feels like he wants to throw up and doesn’t try to hide it. He has no desire to make himself likable to this man. He’d walk away if it wouldn’t be too rude. He’s already an outsider here and while he doesn’t care what most of these people think, he cares about what Hannibal thinks. 

And Hannibal doesn’t tolerate people being rude.

“Are you working on a new book?” Will asks.

“The pursuit of knowledge is man’s greatest motivator.”

“Not the pursuit of fame?”

Chilton huffs and walks away.

“Making enemies?” Hannibal asks, appearing at Will’s side.

“It comes easier to me than making friends.”

“I consider myself fortunate, then.”

Will smiles at him. He wants to keep Hannibal at his side for the rest of the night, wants to spirit them off somewhere private. But Will hasn’t earned that privilege yet. 

“Thank you for inviting me here, tonight.”

“Even with the company you’ve been forced to keep?” Hannibal’s gaze seeks out Chilton who is simpering at Alana now. She handles it with better grace than Will did.

“My fortune seems to have improved.” Will takes a sip of his wine and nods towards Mrs. Komeda, weaving her way towards them. “You have duties to perform as host, but maybe another time I can give you a full review of the evening.”

“Are you adding food critic to your already impressive résumé?”

“Hardly. There’s nothing to criticize.” Will gently taps his glass of wine against Hannibal’s before he leaves the older man to be ambushed by his other guests. 

~*~*~

“We have a possible lead,” Beverly says. 

“Also, shitty coffee.” Zeller holds up a cup in offering.

“I’m good but thanks.” Will stands next to Beverly to look at the computer.

“Four years ago, a dog was found dead in the basement of an abandoned house. There are some pictures. Jack’s already arranging a meeting so we can talk to the officer who conducted the, brief, investigation.”

Will scrolls through the pictures. They’re low quality and don’t show the full scene, but it’s enough. The cage, the empty shallow water dish. Will drags a hand down his face and looks away before he imagines what it was like for the dog. 

“How are we on connections between our two human victims?” Will asks. 

“So far, nada,” Price says. “But if we look at where they were found, where they’re from, and where the dog was found then we’re not looking a big area.”

“Still too big to go knocking on doors,” Zeller says. 

~*~*~

Carla Reinhart stands up to shake Will’s hand and sends her desk chair rolling back into the desk behind hers. She sighs. “The chairs are new and I haven’t gotten used to them yet.”

Her laptop is outdated and her desk is covered in papers. The walls of her cubicle are littered in sticky notes reminding her of her computer passwords and workarounds for the systems she uses. There are three takeout menus beside the phone.

The space is cramped but cozy. It reminds him of his days on the force. He almost misses them.

“Do you want Ritchie’s chair?” she asks. “He’ll be at lunch for at least another hour and the desk chairs are more comfortable than the visitor chairs.”

Will takes the chair from the cubicle behind her and rolls it over. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me.”

“Yeah, I’m a little confused that you would come all the way out here for a cold case involving a dog, but I’ll answer whatever questions I can.”

“We think it’s related to a case we’re working on right now.” Will wishes Jack had told Officer Reinhart more than, “We’re showing up, accommodate us”. At least Jack hadn’t insisted on accompanying Will to his meeting. He’s gotten the impression that Jack thinks is a waste of time. 

“More dogs?”

“People now. We think our killer has escalated. This might be one of his first kills.”

“It was my first case,” Reinhart says. She leans back in her chair. “Our police chief thought he’d ease me into it, give me an animal death instead of a human one.”

“He must not be a dog person.”

Reinhart shakes her head. “You are, though. I can tell.”

“And here I thought I got all the dog hair off this morning.” Will smiles, coaxing her to smile back at him. 

“It was ruled neglect. Maybe it was malicious, but we didn’t have the resources to pour into it. I put some pictures in the archive, returned the remains to the owner, and then I had to move on. If I’d done more--”

“This isn’t your fault,” Will tells her. “And you can help us now. Tell me everything you remember, no matter how insignificant it seems.”

~*~*~

Zeller accompanies Will to talk to the Martins who live in the same house they lived in when Sami went missing. Mr. and Mrs. Martin are in their late fifties and sit next to each other on the couch. Tammi, their daughter, perches on the edge of one of the arm chairs, a photo album clutched in her hands. 

“We got Sami when I was eight,” Tammi says. “I got to name her. Tammi and Sami.” She laughs wetly, tears in her eyes. “We grew up together, you know?”

Will nods. He picked up strays in every town he and his dad moved to. They helped him feel less alone, and he always made sure to bring them to a shelter before they moved on so they’d have someone to take care of them.

“I’d call home during college to talk to him. Mom used to joke that I’d never make friends if I spent all my time calling my dog. But she was mine. When I graduated, I moved back home and took care of her as she grew older. I knew it was going to hurt when she died but I didn’t expect her to be taken from me. The nice officer, she brought me an urn with Sami’s remains. She wouldn’t give us the details on what happened.”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Martin says. “I thought we put this behind us.”

“We never had closure,” Tammi says. “Someone stole Sami then left her to die. What kind of monster does that?”

“One I’m trying to find,” Will says. “I’d like to talk to you, but I understand if any of you want to leave this behind you.”

“If you don’t mind,” Mrs. Martin says. She reaches for her husband’s hand.

“Why don’t Tammi and I take a walk,” Will suggests.

Still clutching her photo album, she leads him out of the house. It means Zeller’s left alone with the parents. It’s an arrangement that probably makes both of them happy.

“You understand,” Tammi says. “My parents, they don’t. I’m an only child. I think they got Sami so I’d quit bothering them all the time.”

“You loved her.”

“Yes.”

They walk down the street, Will’s collar turned up against the autumn chill.

“She was a tiny Yorkshire Terrier. I used to put bows in her hair. She was patient with me. This was one of our walking routes. There’s a park a couple minutes away.”

“Let's go there. You can show me your album.”

“You actually care.” She sounds surprised. “Most people, they say she was just a dog. Or, they’re sympathetic until they realize how long it’s been. As if I should be over it. Do you think answers would make it easier?”

“No,” Will tells her, gently, because he likes her. “It won’t change what happened.”

“But I’d know why.”

“You already know why. There are shitty people in the world.”

She laughs, surprised. “You’re not what I thought I’d a FBI agent would be like.”

“I’m not a FBI agent. I’m a consultant.”

“And that makes all the difference?”

“I also have eight dogs. That makes me a better person than most.”

She laughs again. “Eight?”

“Méphistophélès is my newest addition to the pack. I found her on the side of the road.”

“You have a soft heart,” Tammi says.

Not really, but he needs her to believe that if he wants his answers. They arrive at the park, a small gated off square of grass. There are a few trees and a couple scattered bushes and three benches. They pick the closest bench to the gate.

“Sami loved fall,” Tammi says. She opens the album. “Catching leaves was her favorite thing to do. When the wind blew she’d freeze, unable to move because there were so many different directions she wanted to move in.”

The first pictures in the album are of a much younger Tammi clutching her new puppy to her chest. Tammi has bulky glasses and wears brightly colored scrunchies in her hair. A couple pages in, it’s Sami with the scrunchies. 

As Will turns more pages, both Tammi and Sami grow up. He sees Tammi with braces then Tammi in a UVA crewneck sweatshirt. There are more pictures, presumably once Tammi has a camera of her own instead of relying on her mother to take pictures. 

“Here’s us at the park,” Tammi says, pointing to two pages full of them at this same place. She goes to turn the page, but Will puts his hand on her wrist.

He points to one of the pictures. “Who’s that?” he asks.

There’s a man, out of focus, but turned towards the camera and Sami. He looks familiar. Will turns back two pages. He’s there again. And again on the page before. Coincidence? 

“Oh.” Tammi’s voice loses all its warmth. “That’s Jared. He was always hanging around the park. I thought it was weird, because he never brought a dog with him. My mom told me he wasn’t at the park for the dogs.” She shudders. “I never like the way he looked at me, but what could I say?”

“Does Jared have a last name?”

“Uh, Consigli, I think. He lives with his mom. I guess she’s pretty sick, and he didn’t want her going into a home. My mom says it’s sweet of him.”

“You don’t seem to think so.”

“Some guys just give you the creeps, you know? I don’t have any reason to think badly of him. I just do. I probably sound paranoid.”

“You don’t,” Will assures her. “I’ve made my career out of trusting my instincts.” He taps the album. “Want to finish going through this?”

~*~*~

“I need an address for Jared Consigli,” Will tells Jack when he calls him.

“Why?”

“Instinct.”

“I need more than that.”

Will hangs up on him. He takes Zeller to the bar with him. 

“Wow,” Zeller says. “I didn’t peg you for someone to drink on the job.”

“We’re off the clock,” Will says. “Enough.”

He orders the shittiest whiskey they have. Zeller raises his eyebrows, judging. Will flips him off and takes his whiskey to the far end of the bar. A regular shuffles closer to Will to peer at his glass. 

“Rough day?”

“Isn’t it always?” Will asks. He braces himself for his first swallow. It really is low-end stuff but it reminds him of his childhood and sneaking drinks when his dad was passed out at the table. He blames reminiscing with Tammi for this sudden bout of nostalgia. 

The guy raises his glass to Will. “You’re not from around here.”

“Reporter from a couple towns over,” Will says. He laughs, self-deprecating, when the man scoots away. “Not like that. I’ve been sent to do a feel-good piece. I’m not here to drag anyone through the mud.”

“Feel-good piece?”

“About local heroes and stuff. I got a tip about a guy named Consigli? Heard he moved back into town to take care of his mother.”

The man relaxes. “Jared’s a good kid. Odd, you know the type, but he tries. Eliza Consigli was a formidable woman. It’s a damn shame what age does to a person. She doesn’t even leave the house these days.”

“No? She must get a lot of visitors, then.”

“Jared says her memory isn’t so great. It’s just the two of them. The boy’s given up a lot to take care of her. I wish  _ my _ children cared about me half as much as he cares for his mother.”

Maybe Jack was right. Maybe Will was jumping to conclusions based off some blurry pictures from years ago. 

“Hogwash.” A woman in a thin jacket drops into the seat next to Will. Her beer sloshes over its glass. She licks the drops off her hand. “Jared Consigli hates his momma.”

“Don’t spread rumors, Mabel. There’s a reporter here.”

Mabel’s gaze is sharp, maybe too sharp as she eyes Will. “A reporter, huh?”

“Just searching for the truth,” Will says.

“The truth is that Jared Consigli got as far away from this town as he could and when he failed at living on his own, he came back with his tail between his legs.”

“His mother took care of him and now he takes care of her,” the guy on Will’s left says.

“Bullshit,” Mabel says.

“Does he like dogs?” Will asks.

Both locals give him matching, judgmental looks.

Will shrugs and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I told you, feel-good story. Write about him taking care of his mom, throw in a picture of him playing with a dog--it’s perfect.”

“He doesn’t have a dog, but he spends a lot of time at the park,” the guy says.

Mabel scoffs. “Checking out the girls. Always the young ones.”

“He’s not a creep,” the guy defends.

None of this is enough evidence to go to Jack with. He needs something concrete. 

“He’s a private person,” the man says. “You probably won’t get an interview.”

_ I only need a glimpse. _

“He still goes to the dog park,” Mabel says. “He’s gotten older. The girls he looks at haven’t.”

~*~*~

Beverly drives out to relieve Zeller of being the FBI agent on call. She brings Cicero with her.

“He’s a cute one,” Beverly says when she hands him over. “Does the hotel let you have dogs?”

“Yes,” he says, a little defensive.

“As if you wouldn’t smuggle a canine into a hotel room.” She shoves his shoulder, friendly. “Zeller says you’re getting into the case.”

“We’re close to something,” Will says. 

~*~*~

He spends the entire day at the dog park with Cicero. They both sleep well that night.

The next day, he returns. Cicero keeps looking for his packmates then trotting over to Will with sad eyes when he doesn’t find them.

“Soon,” Will promises. “You want a belly rub?”

Cicero turns onto his back and wags his tail.

~*~*~

It takes two coffees, three trips to the bathroom, and a couple rounds of fetch before Will’s patience is rewarded. 

Jared Consigli slinks into the park, conspicuous with his lack of a dog. He sits on one of the benches and hunches his shoulders, making himself look broader. 

He stares at the women in the park, his gaze drawn towards the younger ones. But, just as often, he stares at their dogs. There’s longing in his gaze, different depending on whether he’s looking at a human or a dog, but it’s longing all the same.

Jared Consigli is a lonely man.

Lonely enough to kidnap dogs?

To escalate to kidnapping humans?

How does his mother factor into it?

_ You can’t have a dog until you show some responsibility. _

_ Oh,  _ Will thinks.  _ This has been a test. And you’ve failed every step along the way. _

Someone should check on Eliza Consigli. 

~*~*~

Will’s at the dog park again when Jared shows up.

Will calls Tammi Martin. “I need a favor,” he says.

She shows up fifteen minutes later with a light scarf and a thermos. Cicero bounds up to her and she kneels down so he can lick her face.

“Thank you,” Will says. “I have an errand I need to run.”

“Jared’s here,” she whispers.

“You’ll keep Cicero safe,” Will says. “And he’ll protect you. If you need anything, call me.”

She nods. “What did you say you needed again?”

~*~*~

Will rings the doorbell. 

There’s no answer.

He rings it again.

He thinks he hears the scrape of wood against wood.

He definitely hears a cry.

The door is locked. He steps back then throws his shoulder into it, knocking it open. 

Eliza Consigli is on the floor. She looks frail, as if a stiff wind would dissolve her into ash. 

Will lifts her with ease--she’s far too light, even for her age. She makes a distressed sound when he tries to help her into the chair she toppled over. He brings her to the couch instead. She garbles what Will thinks is a thank you. She has no teeth in her mouth.

Will pats her knee. “I work for the FBI.” He hands her his ID. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

She makes a sound when he backs away. He goes straight for the master bedroom. One look confirms that this isn’t where she sleeps. He still checks the master bathroom. He finds a set of dentures, up high where Eliza wouldn’t be able to reach even if she had the strength to stand. 

He takes them into the living room.

Tears gather in her eyes when she sees them.

She holds her hands out to him and they tremble with the effort.

“What has he done to you?” Will murmurs. He helps her fit her dentures into her mouth.

“You need to arrest him,” she says. Her words are still difficult to understand, her voice rusty with disuse. “He’s killing me.”

Will pulls out his phone. 

Beverly picks up on the second ring. “Yo.”

“I need you to go to the dog park and keep an eye on Consigli.”

“Will--”

“I’m with his mother.”

“ _ Will _ .”

Will glances at Eliza who is listing sideways. “It’s bad, Bev.”

“I’ll go but I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

“Keep an eye out. Give me a heads up. Stall if you have to.”

They hang up and Will turns his attention back to Eliza. “My name is Will Graham. I need you to tell me everything.”

She tips over until she’s lying on the couch. Will moves her to the arm chair where there’s less room for her to fall. There’s still too much room. Her shoulders are too narrow, her cheeks too sunken. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” Will asks. “Eat?”

He turns the chair so he’s in her line of sight as he moves into the kitchen. The fridge is full of bottles of Ensure shakes. The cabinets are full of soup. He finds a different cabinet with cereal, rice, and instant mashed potatoes. 

He looks into the fridge again.

He knows what’s happened.

He makes a large bowl of instant mashed potatoes with garlic powder, sour cream, and twice as much butter as the recipe calls for. 

He brings the bowl and a spoon to where Eliza is still upright in her chair.

“It’s nothing fancy,” Will says, “but it’s something you can eat with a spoon at least.”

“You’re a bright man.”

She takes the bowl. She eats the first spoonful of potatoes even though they’re still hot. She eagerly scoops a second spoonful.

“He was an odd child,” Will says. “He wasn’t  _ bad _ but there was something off about him.”

Eliza nods.

“He begged you for a puppy. You told him no. He has to show he was responsible. You got him something else. A fish? A hamster?”

“Guinea pig.”

“How long did it last?”

“Three weeks.”

“He forgot about it.”

Eliza nods again. She eats more potatoes.

“Death by neglect. He still begged for a puppy. You still said no, but you had concrete evidence on your side. If he couldn’t take care of a guinea pig then how could he take care of a puppy?”

“Couldn’t even take care of himself.”

_ And he set out to prove that he could. First with dogs, then with people. And now with you. You’re his longest-lasting victim. How do you feel about that? _

Eliza gives up on the potatoes when lifting the spoon becomes too much effort. Will doesn’t offer to feed her. 

~*~*~

Tammi cries when Will tells her they’ve arrested Jared.

She cries even harder when Will asks her if she wants to keep Cicero.

He returns to Wolf Trap with one less dog in his pack and another case closed.

~*~*~

He shows up at Hannibal’s house without really thinking.

It isn’t until Hannibal opens the front door and surprise flickers across his face that Will realizes this isn’t who they are.

Will’s practically a stranger. He doesn’t have a standing invitation to Hannibal’s house. 

“I’m sorry,” Will says. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

“My home is always open to friends.”

_ We’re not friends. We’re barely more than acquaintances _ .

He misses his Hannibal with a sharp ache. 

“Come inside,” Hannibal says. 

Will’s already driven all the way out here. Someone’s watching his dogs for the night. All the pieces are in place. He shouldn’t cross the threshold.

He does it anyway.

He takes his shoes off then walks through the house until his finds the living room. It’s probably rude to lead the way through Hannibal’s house. Is it a killable offense? Will almost wants Hannibal to try. 

He touches his stomach where there’s no longer a scar. 

“Will you play for me?” Will asks, motioning to the theremin. “There’s a killer in my head. I want to drown him out.”

If Hannibal thinks it’s an odd request, he doesn’t say. He sits at the theremin and plays. It isn’t the haunting melody he would’ve played Will in the past--future? It isn’t a mixture of yearning and desire, building and building until one of them turns away, unwilling to take it to its inevitable conclusion.

In all the ways Hannibal and Will came together, that was never one of them.

The piece Hannibal plays is one meant to show off. Will appreciates it and hates it at the same time.

He’s glad when it’s over.

“Do you often carry killers with you after the case is over?” Hannibal asks.

_ I’m missing my paddle. _

“Sometimes. I don’t lose sight of who I am, but sometimes they linger. This one--” Will stretches his legs out. “He kidnapped dogs, then people, and deprived them of anything except what he gave them. He set himself up as their god then abandoned them.”

“Have you ever felt abandoned?”

“Abandonment requires expectation. I’ve learned to be better at choosing who I place those expectations on.”

He meets Hannibal’s gaze.

_ You were supposed to be invincible. You survived Jack and a manhunt through Italy. You survived Mason and the Great Red Dragon. But you couldn’t survive me. _

“What were you searching for when you came to my house tonight, Will?”

_ No subtle manipulation? You aren’t trying to steer me towards a specific answer? Am I no longer interesting to you? Or do you think I’ll answer correctly without your guidance? _

“You.”

Hannibal is unnaturally still where he sits at his theremin. “And now that you’ve found me?”

Will stands up. “I would like to be more than your friend.”

Hannibal stands up as well, on equal height as they walk towards each other. Hannibal curls a hand around the back of Will’s neck, almost too tender. Will pulls him down so they can kiss.

_ After all this time, I’m still learning new things about you _ .

~*~*~

Will wakes up in Hannibal’s bed, the man himself nowhere to be found. He’d be offended but he knows that Hannibal sleeps far less than the average human. He showers then pulls on last night’s boxers and one of Hannibal’s shirts. He wanders downstairs, curls still damp and in a mix of their clothing.

Hannibal doesn’t do anything as common as stare, but his gaze does flick over when Will enters the kitchen, and he smiles as he returns to making breakfast. 

“You’ll spoil me,” Will says as he sits at the counter. 

“You look as if you don’t eat enough.”

Will thinks about how big Hannibal’s hands looked against his hips last night and how easy it was for Hannibal to pin Will with his thighs. If Will wanted, he could’ve fought back. He’s not sure he’d win, but he could’ve gotten a few shots in. He thinks about the lack of bruises on his skin. Hannibal had been...gentle, almost careful even. 

Will doesn’t like being thought of as fragile.

He doesn’t want to have to try and kill Hannibal to prove he isn’t.

“You want to feed me.” Will’s mouth twists. It’s too close to the charity of his youth, grandmothers at church pressing food into his hands that he was too hungry to refuse.

He isn’t that kid.

He doesn’t need to be  _ coddled _ .

“I enjoy providing for my friends.”

Will slides off the counter stool. “I told you, I want to be more than friends.” He stands next to Hannibal and peers at the bacon sizzling in the pan. “Show me.”

Hannibal smiles again. “First, you need an apron.”

~*~*~

He solves cases with Jack.

He plays house with Hannibal.

It is, he suspects, a normal life.

It’s maddeningly boring.

He swipes one of Hannibal’s sweaters from his closet when a morning turns out to be unexpectedly cold, and he doesn’t have the proper clothes. He wears it to lecture, and none of his students think it’s odd that he can pull the sleeves over his hands.

Alana takes one look at the sweater, not even argyle, and she smiles, pleased, and says, “Hannibal makes the best coffee.”

They go to the opera together, and Will still insists on buying his own suit, but he sits in Hannibal’s box. Pictures make it into the paper and Bev plasters them all over his office. Alana probably helped her. 

He endures the teasing as frustration simmers under his skin. Is this what his life is destined to be? The Chesapeake Ripper has been quiet, and Will worries that he may stay quiet. Will is a puzzle for Hannibal to figure out, blowing hot and cold without any apparent reason. Why seek outside entertainment when Will is spending more and more nights in his bed?

He needs to do something.

“It’ll mean crossing a line,” Will tells Philly. She’s grown big but stayed gentle, her nature countered by the dogs she’s surrounded by. “There’s a difference between what I’ve done before and purposefully provoking the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Philly butts her head against Will’s shoulder. 

“I can’t stay in this stalemate forever,” Will says.

~*~*~

The next morning, Will wakes up to a rabbit carcass on the front porch. Philly’s snout is stained red with blood. She growls at any of the dogs who try and get too close.

~*~*~

It takes weeks of planning and one abandoned attempt before Will’s able to murder and stage Donald Sutcliffe to his liking. 

He feigns surprise when Jack calls him the next morning then puts up a, justifiable, fight about having to miss his classes to look at a crime scene.

“We agreed at the beginning that this wouldn’t interfere with my teaching,” Will says. 

Hannibal has a hand on Will’s hip. He stopped pressing kisses against Will’s shoulder blades as if he thinks Will has a problem mixing murder and sex. 

“If it was anything else, I wouldn’t ask,” Jack says. He sounds tired. “But there are things about the murder which are making people nervous.”

“Oh?”

“It has the feel of a Ripper scene.”

“The Chesapeake Ripper?”

Hannibal doesn’t react at all, but Will can feel the gears already turning in his head.

“I’m on my way,” Will says. He won’t make Jack beg. Not when everything’s falling so nicely into place. “I know catching this guy means a lot to you.”

Jack hangs up.

Will turns to Hannibal. “I have to go.” He trails his fingers down Hannibal’s cheek. 

Hannibal turns to press a kiss against the pads of Will’s fingers. “You once told me you saw murder as art.”

“Some murder.”

“Do you want this to be a Ripper scene?”

“I’ve never seen his work.” Will’s pulse pounds beneath his skin. He kisses Hannibal, perhaps on the wrong side of rough for this early in the morning. He bites at Hannibal’s bottom lip as if he can draw the other man’s true nature out. 

Hannibal’s fingers dig into Will’s hip for a moment, before he pulls back. “I shouldn’t delay you.”

Will slides out of bed.

There are tiny, half-moon indents on his skin. 

They’ve faded before he even makes it to the crime scene.

~*~*~

Jack pulls Will aside after Will’s bullshitted his way through a profile. There’s a faint click of heels on linoleum. Will would bet his house and all his dogs that he knows who’s creeping around the crime scene. 

He stops where he is so Jack doesn’t round the corner and discover Freddie.

“I need the truth,” Jack says. “Is this the Ripper?”

“I don’t know,” Will answers.

Jack growls and knocks his fist against the wall. “What is the point of the best damn profiler in the country if you can’t give me the answers I need?”

“It could be the Ripper,” Will says. He feels a spark of satisfaction at the way Jack’s shoulders slump even though this Jack hasn’t dragged him through hell. “There are certainly similarities, but I don’t want to jump to any conclusions. I’ve never seen a Ripper case fresh. I don’t work as well from pictures.”

“Would you know a Ripper scene if you saw it?”

“I’m not a fucking Magic-8 ball, Jack. The murder is artistic in the way the Ripper favors. There doesn’t appear to be a motive. The body has been displayed with a message, but it’s one I haven’t figured out yet. But there aren’t any organs missing. That’s a Ripper staple, isn’t it?”

“So we don’t know.”

“We don’t know.”

~*~*~

**Ripper or not? FBI At a Loss,** the TattleCrime headline reads.  _ The FBI’s top consultant, profiler and teacher Will Graham, admits that he doesn’t know if the infamous serial killer is responsible for the latest grisly scene in Baltimore. _

The article is shit, but it does it’s job.

Immediately, people take sides. The Mayor tries to calm the hysteria as half the population claims it’s the Ripper and half claim it isn’t. 

Hannibal grows distant and Will lets him. When Hannibal’s ready, he’ll reach out. Until then, Will is content to share his bed with his dogs. 

~*~*~

“Well,” Will says, hands in his pockets as he surveys the scene. “Donald Sutcliffe definitely wasn’t a Ripper murder.”

Will had dissected Sutcliffe’s brain, but Hannibal has dissected an entire body. It’s sliced open and pinned and  _ labeled  _ like a fucking teaching tool except that this a murder and not a cadaver donated for science.

It’s also missing a kidney. There’s a note in the cavity to mark its absence.

The whole design is, objectively, breathtaking. Subjectively, Will’s a little pissed off because it’s clearly meant as a lesson for the FBI and; therefore, a lesson for him. He doesn’t let himself be too bothered. 

This is what he wanted, Hannibal showing off for him.

It’s a struggle to keep the pleasure off his face as he surveys the scene.

“Hell, Will,” Jack mutters. “Really?”

Will shrugs. “I told you, I wasn’t sure. But this is  _ definitely  _ the Ripper. The other scene pales in comparison. He’s literally giving us a lesson. It’s a little on the nose for him, but I guess Lounds’s article pissed him off.”

“You think the Ripper reads TattleCrime?”

“The Ripper is brilliant, and he’s calculating. He knows how to commit murder then stage the body in elaborate and time-consuming ways without being caught. I would wager that he kills more than we know. He only deigns to show us some of his kills. We see as much of him as he allows to be seen.”

“ _ Now  _ you’re the Ripper expert.”

“He’s let me see,” Will says. 

~*~*~

Will calls Hannibal from the crime scene. “Are we still fighting or can I come over?”

“We’re fighting?” Hannibal asks.

“You needed space. Do you still need it?”

“I have another two patients to see this afternoon. Dinner?”

“I’ll be at your house when you get home.”

Will waits long enough to give Hannibal time to protest then hangs up. He swings by the grocery store to pick up the ingredients he’ll need. It’s a toss-up whether Hannibal will be furious that Will’s cooked in his kitchen or incredibly turned on.

Honestly, Will’s hoping for a bit of both.

Things have been too tame recently. It’s why he provoked the Chesapeake Ripper into killing. He used to be better at the long-game. Maybe it’s because he knows everything he’s missing. Maybe it’s because he had to wait so long the first time around, and he’s tired of waiting.

He pulls up Pandora on his phone and whistles to music that reminds him of sweaty summers in Louisiana.

He adds too much cayenne to the dish but tempers it with jam. He’s a little skeptical, but the recipe says to do it. He’s never cooked much with kidneys before, and he’s not embarrassed at all that he had to Google recipes.

Of course, when the first one that popped up was  _ deviled kidneys  _ he couldn’t resist.

The cayenne is a bonus.

The rice is just about done and he’s stirring the heavy cream into the kidneys when the door opens. There’s no way Hannibal can’t smell that something’s cooking from the entryway. Knowing him, he probably knows exactly what Will’s cooking. 

He checks to make sure there’s a knife within reach before he turns. 

“Welcome home,” he says.

Hannibal pauses in the entrance to the kitchen. With the darkness of the hallway at his back he looks ominous, larger than he really is. Will turns the burner off before he screws all this up by ruining dinner. 

“I hope you didn’t have plans for the kidney in the fridge.”

“I didn’t realize you knew how to cook kidney.”

Hannibal’s voice is soft, level, and deceptively calm. Will gives the rice a final stir. “I know my way around Google.” Speaking of, he turns the radio on his phone off. “I should’ve asked first, though.”

“What did you make?”

“Deviled kidney.”

Hannibal pauses, the tiniest falter in his step, before he’s next to Will and looking into the pan. He pats Will’s hip.

“You remember to wear an apron.”

It’s not the approval Will hoped for, but Hannibal also hasn’t tried to strangle him. 

“I don’t know what wine pairs well with this,” Will admits.

Hannibal leaves Will for the wine rack. 

They sit down at the table with deviled kidney over rice and a glass of wine apiece. 

“How was your day?” Will asks.

“Better than yours. Are you sure you want to eat kidney after the crime scene this morning?”

“It’s not like we’re eating his kidney,” Will says. “Is this lamb or calf? I heard they were the best and knowing you, you only buy the best.”

“Lamb,” Hannibal answers. His eyes are nearly black as they meet Will’s.

Will holds eye contact as he takes his first bite of dinner. He chews slowly, allows his eyes to flutter shut at the explosion of cayenne then the sweet follow-up of the jam. When he opens his eyes again, Hannibal’s still staring.

“Dinner first,” Will says. “It would be rude not to eat what I made for us.”

Hannibal eats with his gaze heavy on Will the entire time. 

~*~*~

Once they’re both undressed, Will pushes Hannibal down onto the bed to see what he’ll do. He grabs Will’s wrist, a lightning quick movement, and pulls him down to join him. He easily pins Will beneath him.

Will arches as much as he’s able, showing that even while held down, he still holds some power. He surges up to kiss Hannibal, rough and biting. Hannibal pushes him back down, a hand splayed across Will’s chest. Will wants Hannibal’s fingers curled around his neck. He wants Hannibal to feel the life thudding through Will’s body and choose to let him live. 

He wants to be  _ seen _ .

Will flips them, years of training and surprise on his side. He runs his hands through Hannibal’s hair and tugs until he exposes Hannibal’s neck. 

“You didn’t ask me about my day,” Will asks. He eyes the bob of Hannibal’s Adam’s apple. He considers the strong tendons in his neck. He wants to bite. He’s not sure where to begin.

Hannibal’s, “How was your day?” is sincere for all it drips with sarcasm. 

Will pulls harder on Hannibal’s hair then rises over him so he can meet the other man’s eyes.

“There was a Chesapeake Ripper installment,” Will says. 

“Like a work of art?”

Will trails his fingers down the long stretch of Hannibal’s neck. The drag over his chest, the sight of his crinkly chest hair a familiar one to Will now. He curls his fingers around Hannibal’s cock, heavy but not quite hard yet. 

“Sometimes, I bring killers back from scenes with me,” Will says. It’s a warning and an appeal to Hannibal’s vanity. 

Hannibal’s cock twitches in his grasp, giving away more than Hannibal’s expression does. 

Will’s lips peel back in a smile. “What do you see when I look at you?”

Hannibal hauls him down and kisses him.

~*~*~

Will wears bruises under his clothes to lecture the next day.

Hannibal had touched them this morning, light, probably wondering if Will wanted him to apologize or not. He still doesn’t  _ see  _ Will, not the way Will sees him. Will had pressed Hannibal’s thumb harder into one of the bruises until both of them gasped.

Hannibal wasn’t nearly as gentle with him after that. 

Will’s just sent his students out of the room when Alana enters. It’s winter now so she wears a thicker sweater dress and in dark purple rather than the reds and oranges she favored in fall. The scarf around her neck is both fashionable and warm. 

“The Ripper’s back?” she asks.

“He’s always been here. He’s allowing himself to be seen again.”

She stops, her concern for herself melting into concern for him. “I don’t think consulting for Jack is good for you.”

“But I’m very good for it.”

“Will--”

“It doesn’t matter,” Will interrupts. “The Ripper has surfaced, and Jack won’t relinquish any of his advantages.”

Alana opens her mouth, changes gears when she notices something. “You have a hickey.”

Will touches the mark, just peeking out from his collar. “I wanted a distraction last night.”

“Who are you?” Alana asks.

“Will Graham.”

_ I’m in Quantico, Virginia. It is 12:03pm.  _

_ I am in love with Hannibal Lecter, and I won’t let anyone or anything keep me from him. _

~*~*~

After class, Will pores over pictures from the crime scene. There’s no evidence left behind, nothing concrete to say who committed the crime except for the way it has the Chesapeake Ripper written all over it.

Will puts in his time then returns to Hannibal.

“I hope you’ve eaten already,” Will says in lieu of a proper hello.

Hannibal, sitting at his piano, raises elegant eyebrows. “You seemed quite insistent that I not hold dinner for you.”

Will holds a hand out. “Come to bed.”

~*~*~

They fall into bed, Will on top again. He straddles Hannibal’s waist, his knees squeezing maybe too tight. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

Will smiles, dangerous and feral in the dim lighting of the room. 

He slicks one hand up so he can stroke Hannibal’s cock. His other hand, he fits around Hannibal’s neck. Hannibal’s eyes flutter. He wets his lips. He doesn’t knock Will’s hand away or put up any protest.

Will applies pressure, slowly so that they both know he’s in full control of what he’s doing.

He feels Hannibal’s pulse, trapped against his palm. He feels the pressure as he presses down more and more, cutting off Hannibal’s air.

He feels the wet slide of his hand against Hannibal’s cock and the precome that oozes at the tip. 

He holds Hannibal’s gaze, brings him right to the edge of consciousness then holds him there. They both know that Hannibal’s life is quite literally in Will’s hands right now. Hannibal doesn’t have enough oxygen or strength to fight him off. A little more pressure and Hannibal would be dead.

_ It’s a good thing I find you interesting. _

Will pulls back.

Hannibal sucks in a desperate breath as he comes, his cock jerking in Will’s grip.

His eyes are still dazed as he flips them, his hands far from gentle as he holds Will down.

“Do you trust me?” Hannibal asks, his voice like gravel. 

“Yes,” Will breathes, hard and desperate and  _ longing _ .

“I want you to struggle.”

~*~*~

Will has more bruises today. 

He cherishes every one of them. 

~*~*~

They’re at Will’s house for a change. The dogs are playing in the snow. Will’s sprawled across the couch, his head in Hannibal’s lap. 

“Jack’s going out of his mind,” Will says.

Hannibal runs his long fingers through Will’s curls. “The Ripper?”

“Kills in sounders of three. Jack’s waiting for the next one. It’s made him irate.”

“You seem untroubled.”

“The Ripper never leaves evidence so it’s not like another crime scene will help. And, he does what he wants. If there’s another scene, there’s another scene. Maybe he retreats back into the shadows.”

“You don’t think he’ll hold to his pattern.”

Will looks up at Hannibal. “He does whatever he wants. Predicting him doesn’t work the same as predicting other killers.”

“You admire him.”

“He’s free. It’s not a pathology for him. It’s why patterns are just as likely to dissolve as hold. It’s why there are dozens of victims we’ll never find. He kills when he wants, puts on a performance when he wants. He isn’t ruled by anything.”

_ I miss him _ .

Hannibal’s hands cup Will’s face, framing his eyes. “What a fascinating brain you have.”

“We all want to be seen,” Will says. “I can see him.”

“And does he see you?”

Will stares up at Hannibal. “Not yet.”

~*~*~

There’s a city map in the next Ripper scene. The team spends four weeks uselessly chasing down leads. Each wild hunt makes it into the papers.

Hannibal is downright cheery even though it means Will isn’t in his bed as often as either of them might like. 

Will wonders when he should tell Hannibal.

He wonders  _ how  _ to tell him.

~*~*~

They stop chasing dead ends when there’s a new killer to investigate, one who they actually have a chance at catching.

Will comes home, murder and motives dancing inside his head. 

When he tries to kiss Hannibal, the man turns his head.

“Ah,” Will says, rejection and glee battling for a place in his chest. “The only killer you want in our bed is the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Hannibal squeezes Will’s wrist once. “You said Jack was putting the case aside.”

“I don’t think the Ripper will leave our bed that easily, do you?”

Hannibal’s grip tightens again. 

There’s a moment of tense silence, the two of them standing in the hallway, Will aware that this is  _ the moment _ . Will Hannibal be the one to throw them off the cliff this time? 

“How long?” Hannibal asks.

“Since before you met me.”

Hannibal cocks his head to the side, considering.

“You might want to be sitting for this,” Will says. 

They move into the sitting room. Hannibal sits in the arm chair. Will sits down on the couch. He immediately stands up again. Hannibal leans back, composed as ever, and  _ watches _ . It’s been a long time since Hannibal made him feel like prey.

“I know you,” Will says, “but you don’t know me. Not entirely. Not the way you did before.”

Hannibal continues to sit, completely still, his hands resting on his knees.

He could kill Will in any number of ways.

Will glances at the stag statue on the bookcase.

Then again, so could Will.

“It was time travel, maybe a prophetic dream. Honestly, I don’t know how, but I lived an entire lifetime with you. It wasn’t even that long. But it felt like it.” Will doesn’t look at Hannibal to see how he’s reacting. “I was...a mess. Socially incompetent, empathetic beyond my ability to handle, and encephalitis on top of all of it. I was an experiment. Until I turned into more.”

Will wanders over to one of the windows, heavy drapes blocking out the lingering sunlight. It almost feels like he’s back in therapy. “You changed me. And in turn, I changed you.”

He finally looks over at Hannibal.

“You can understand why I might find this difficult to believe.”

“Of course.”

“Tell me something you couldn’t possibly know.”

The first thought Will has, of course, is Mischa. She’s Hannibal’s most guarded secret. She would be definitive proof but also a death sentence. Will leans against the wall. 

“You have an ancestral home in Lithuania.”

Hannibal looks bored. 

“There’s a man there, kept captive, alive only for the mercy of a young woman. Her reward for her mercy, or maybe her punishment, is to watch over him until he finally dies.”

“This was quite the dream.”

“You don’t even know the half of it.”

“Tell me.”

Will tells him, every last, painful detail.

At the end of it, there is open curiosity on Hannibal’s face. “Everything you went through and when you woke up without me in your life, you sought me out.”

“Everything I went through and how could I not?” Will moves closer, hands held out in front of him, non-threatening. “There’s a gap, who I was and who I am. Who you were and who you are. I’m trying to bring them closer together.”

When Will is within reach, Hannibal holds a hand out to him. Will grasps it and allows Hannibal to tug him forward until he’s standing between Hannibal’s spread legs. 

“I will never be him. Not completely.”

“I know.”

Hannibal’s free hand rests on Will’s hip where finger-shaped bruises are protected by his clothes. “I admit, I am jealous that I won’t be able to witness your becoming. I’m sure it was truly majestic to behold.”

“Evolution is constant.” Will leans in until their foreheads touch. 

“Would you like to kill a dragon? The Chesapeake Ripper kills in sounders of three. There’s one victim left.”

Will drags in a ragged breath. “He was our first kill together.”

“Let him be again.”

“He’s not the Great Red Dragon yet.”

Hannibal’s smile is sharp and full of teeth. “Perhaps he needs some guidance.”

“I know a therapist I can recommend.”

Hannibal laughs, deep and rich and pulls Will onto his lap. “My dear Will. How fortunate am I that I’ve been able to meet you in two lifetimes?”

“Romantic,” Will accuses then kisses him. 


End file.
